


True

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Animal Traits, Crack Treated Seriously, Curses, M/M, Magical Realism, Slow Burn, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-16 03:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20185732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: Will stops a curse.  Well.  Interrupts it, anyway.  The old-fashioned way.Why won't anyone believe he's not in love with his doctor?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Moving all of my WIPs from tumblr, because inevitably I fall asleep before I can finish the last three lines of a post, and then I've got a fight on my hands. XD (I'll still be posting things there, but yeah, it's fic dump time.) Also since I can't currently play any of the games I want to be playing, expect a revolving update of anywhere between five to seven fics, because my brain _can not_ be left to its own devices. Like, ever. For any reason. So...shorter chapters than my usual, but a lot more of them, probably. Sorry in advance! XD

They're not even at a crime scene; that's what's going to keep Will up later, because murder and danger go hand in hand. It's not something he expects from eclectic coffee shops with local art on the walls and wistfully earnest alt country crooning softly over the speakers. The case is over, in fact, wrapped up an hour ago. They're on their way back to Wolf Trap and Baltimore respectively, only Will desperately needs coffee and Hannibal drove, and it was this or Starbucks. Neither of them are feeling particularly wary, so when the skinny kid in the knit cap and thrift store chic sidles up to them, Will's biggest fear is that the guy will whip out a petition for him to sign.

_Don't make eye contact_ is pretty much Will's core philosophy, but Hannibal can be surprisingly confrontational for a man so consumed with politeness. Then again, he has no patience for the rude, and the expectant way the kid is staring, right hand fidgeting with something in his jacket pocket, is bordering on harassment.

"May we help you?" Hannibal asks, turning away from his unimpressed scrutiny of the menu board. Will plans on ordering him something anyway. A black drip coffee should be safe, right? Will doesn't contemplate for a moment offering him _bagged_ tea.

The back of his neck starts to prickle as the kid remains silent, not sparing Dr. Lecter a glance. "You're the one from the website, right?" the kid asks at last. "Will Graham. The FBI guy."

Not for the first time, Will devotes serious thought to murdering Freddie Lounds. He could probably get away with it, too. He's got a degree in it and everything.

"No comment," he mutters without looking over. It's more of a response than he really should be giving, but _don't feed the trolls_ is a life lesson he's yet to master. Unfortunate, considering how many bridges he lives near.

"I knew it," the kid says, a sudden current of excitement threaded through his voice. "You're good, but you're not that good. I see what you are--_everybody's_ gonna see!"

If there's one thing life's taught Will, it's that people spouting cryptic bullshit about seeing things are never up to anything good. As the kid pulls something from his coat pocket, Will flings his arm up to protect his face, his other hand scrabbling for his holstered gun.

He's not expecting Hannibal to step bodily between them, his back to their assailant. Even Hannibal looks surprised by his actions, though the widening of his eyes might have something to do with the liquid that's just splashed all over his back and shoulders, settling into his neatly-cropped hair and trickling down the back of his neck.

"Oh, shit," the kid mumbles unseen as a rippling shudder wracks Hannibal from head to foot. Something falls to the floor and shatters with the high, sharp ping of thin glass. Running footsteps follow the sound as the kid bolts out the door, but Will isn't even momentarily tempted to give chase.

Hannibal is _on fire_.

Not literally, thank the gods, but as good as: the glow of the spellfire that wraps him up is a malevolent, pulsing red, warning everyone else to stay back as the bottled curse does its work. Stubborn to the end, Hannibal fights to keep his feet, but his eyes roll back as another convulsion tears through him and leaves him staggering in place. The café has become some obscure circle of Purgatory, full of panicked screams and milling hipsters bouncing off each other in their confusion. Someone shouts to call an ambulance, no, a cursebreaker, the police.

Will can't be sure over the din, but he'd swear Hannibal hasn't made a sound, voice locked up behind gritted teeth, even as his skin starts to ripple, his body starts to _change_.

"Oh, gods, no," Will breathes out in horror. He reaches out one shaking hand, but Hannibal flinches back, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Shut the door." Too quiet. That was too quiet, Will's choked voice barely louder than a whisper. "_Shut the fucking door_!" he manages the second time, voice cracking in his urgency. "Lock this place down! _Now_!"

It's gratifying how fast the other patrons rush to comply, slamming and locking the street door and darting through to the back to do the same. A tattooed couple barely older than their perp plant themselves in front of the big glass windows, holding hands like the shortest Red Rover chain ever. Will appreciates it more than he can say. Of all the curses he's dealt with in his line of work, transformations are the worst, and with the spell being meant for him, the gods only know what Hannibal's going to turn into.

The curse burns hotter as it gains a foothold on its prey, until Will can barely look at Hannibal at all. He knows his hovering is useless, but he refuses to retreat, swallowing sick panic down past the lump in his throat. This is his fault. If he'd waited, gone to sleep like Hannibal had suggested and just let the man drive, they'd have been miles away from here. Now Hannibal's dropping slowly to his knees and Will's wracking his brain for every bit of clinical advice and half-remembered granny's tales and coming up with...very little. Germs of ideas that don't even apply to them, because they're not, and he's not, and it couldn't possibly work--

A faint sound of hurt escapes Hannibal then, and Will throws caution to the wind. Dropping to his knees so fast he knows he's going to have bruises later, he reaches blindly into the flames, grabs Hannibal by the lapels of his coat, and yanks him forward to plant a clumsy, close-mouthed kiss square on Hannibal's lips.

Just like that, the hungry flames start to cool, their rich, red hues paling out to a sullen ghost of themselves. Crackling down to sparks, they whirl away with a quiet hiss as the curse that powers them peters out. It's a human body that falls forward to slump against his shoulder as Will sits frozen, a new kind of panic filling his head with static.

Did...did he just...did he just break a curse with _true love's kiss_?

Something tickles his neck that shouldn't be there, and he jerks hard enough to bring Hannibal out of his daze. Pushing away from Will, Hannibal regards him with narrowed, unfriendly eyes until he takes an unsubtle sniff, and then his--

His ears. Unfold. From the top of his head. Slowly, uncertainly, his eyes warming with dim recognition simultaneously as a long curl Will's pretty sure is his fucking _tail_ wriggles irritably inside his pants leg, trapped.

"Mrr?" Hannibal asks, ears flattening again as Will breaks into a nervous giggle.

Gods. So maybe he didn't break the curse after all.

He's not sure whether that's better or worse.

***

"Well," Beverly says as she rejoins the rest of them in the main area of the lab, "good news. From the traces we got off the shards of the bottle, Dr. Lecter was hit with a Soul Mirror curse."

Will lifts his head from his hands but doesn't sit up in the hard plastic chair he commandeered an hour ago, his elbows still braced on his knees. On his right, Hannibal flicks a lazy ear. His comfortable sprawl is so unlike the man Will knows, he almost wonders if Hannibal's soul has been swapped instead. "How is that good news?"

"Well, for one thing, it's going to be a lot easier to get the genie back in the bottle considering those are the genie," Beverly says, pointing at Hannibal's ears, "and that's the bottle." Her stabbing finger drops, aimed at Hannibal's chest. Hannibal watches her without blinking, the very tip of his tail, fed now through a hole in his tailored slacks that he will _not_ be happy about later, flicking slowly from side to side. "It's still him, just...a very metaphorical version of him. It should buy us some time while we work on the counter spell."

"How much time?" Jack asks before Will can muster the courage to.

"That's the bad news," Beverly says with a grimace. "The 'breakers from the hospital couldn't say for sure, but...apparently with the curse interrupted like it was--"

"It wasn't interrupted," Will mutters.

"--it's too unstable to predict how quickly the changes will set," Beverly continues without glancing his way. "They did put me in touch with a specialist--a Dr. Donald Sutcliffe?" Her tone swoops up at the end as she turns to Hannibal, like she's hoping to tease a response from him. She sighs when Hannibal doesn't even flick an ear. "Turns out he's a friend of Dr. Lecter, so you two have an emergency appointment tonight at seven."

Now she _is_ looking at him, dark eyes expectant. Will sits up straight in surprise. "Us?"

"Aw, c'mon," Zeller chides. His grin would look more natural on a shark. "You can't just go around bestowing true love's kiss and then bail on a guy."

"It wasn't true love's kiss!" Why does he have to keep repeating this?

"I don't care if it was fake date's handshake," Jack barks, his fraying patience snapping all at once. "You're the one he's most comfortable with; you can be responsible for him for just a few days." He had _better_ be able, Jack's simmering glower warns, disappointment held precariously at bay. "And quit joking around, all of you. Dr. Lecter's done a lot for this department, and I shouldn't have to remind anyone we're racing the clock."

He's been trying not to think about that, and having it pointed out so baldly drops an icy chill down his spine. There's always someone in every crowd who thinks a transformation curse would be cute or funny, but Will's seen the reality of it too often from his stint as a cop. The victim often isn't even identified before it's too late; he can't count how many times investigations have become cold cases because someone left a window open, to say nothing of the cases abruptly closed when the family pet is found licking its chops. Add in the spell's illegal nature, that most brewers and casters are taking their best guess at a curse it's a crime to teach, every instance unique to its creator and every cure tailored to its victim, and in every single case the clock is ticking--

It's only half a comfort to know that a transformation can be reversed. Too long spent in the wrong body, and the mind starts to adapt. Magic will ensure it stays that way.

He looks down at his hands, curled into claws around his knees, and resolves to ignore the others' teasing. It's not that he has any objections to seeing Hannibal through this; he owes him that much at least. He just wishes the others would stop trying to make it into something it's not.

Abruptly aware of the heaviness of someone's gaze, he lifts his head and finds Hannibal watching him intently. The steady flicking of the tail draped over the side of Hannibal's chair hesitates, stills, but the motion is gentler than before when it starts up again: more of a curl than a lash. It does a strange, shivery dance when Will looks at it directly, then goes back to rolling contentedly in on itself.

"Do we have any leads on the kid who did this?" Will asks, dragging his eyes away with an effort. They never rise above Jack's shoulder when he glances that way.

"Already in custody," Jack replies coolly. "Jeremy Bowen, graduate student in Alchemical Sciences at Salisbury University. Somehow he got the idea you were some kind of demon--a half-blood, at least. Apparently he was going to make the world safe by exposing you."

"But not exorcising me?" Will demands, incredulous. That...should probably not be what he's taking away from this.

Price snorts. "Funnily enough, you don't have to be that great a planner to make a decent alchemist. When I said my parents gave me a twin...?"

Zeller whips his head around, eyes wide. "Whoa. Wait, how do you know you're the original?"

Price opens his mouth to reply before Jack's harsh sigh silences them all. Dimly Will notices that the ash-blond tail draped between them has started up its steady, side-to-side metronome now that Hannibal's attention has focused on Jack.

"Out," Jack orders tiredly. "When the warrant goes through, I want the three of you," he says to Katz, Price and Zeller, "to see what you can find in Bowen's apartment. Will, keep me informed. The FBI's footing the bill on this, so get him whatever he needs."

Jack doesn't mention that Hannibal has more than enough funds at his disposal to pick up whatever slack the FBI might leave. Hannibal isn't actually competent to manage his finances right now, and they have no idea just yet whether someone exists out there with power of attorney for him. He almost certainly has a lawyer, but Will doesn't even know if he has insurance or pays out of pocket, whether he has a primary care doctor, what his preferences when it comes to his own care even are. All he can do for now is wing it and hope he makes the right choices until someone better comes along.

"Right," he says distantly, feeling overwhelmed and trying not to show it. He's managed to take care of seven dogs, but dogs don't require much. Taking care of himself has been more of a challenge.

He rises with the rest, Hannibal following after a moment of expressionless deliberation, and catches Beverly before she can slip out with the others. "I guess I'm going to need the address of that specialist."

"Sure," she says with an encouraging smile split equally between him and Hannibal. Her mouth quirks; Will notices only then that Hannibal's standing a little too close, all but looming over Will's right shoulder, though there's enough space between them that their bodies don't brush. Will frowns. For all that it looks possessive, Will's pretty sure it's got nothing to do with him at all. Hannibal is aware of him, but all his attention is fixed on Beverly, Will just the cover he's using while he watches his--

"You coming?"

Will blinks rapidly, head jerking back around in startlement. "What?"

"I said it's back at my desk. The address. You okay?"

"Fine," Will promises her, though he's not sure he believes it. "It's just been a long day."

Hannibal looks over at him as he sighs, studying him solemnly before closing his eyes in a long, slow blink. One ear twitches as if trying to flick away an itch, and Will has to stuff both hands into his jacket pockets to keep from reaching up to scratch it. The dogs have him well-trained.

"A really long day," he amends, ignoring the way Beverly's mouth curves into a smirk.


	2. Chapter 2

Noble Hills Health Care Center is a big, ugly block of concrete and glass trying a little too hard to look modern. The lower floors are mostly offices, the middle populated by neurologists and a small cardiology department, but the top is reserved for an elite staff of cursebreakers, two diviners, and one of the best alchemists in the state. Whether the show of cutting-edge medicine is enough to rein in some of the public's wild expectations of traditional magic, Will couldn't say. Mostly he just appreciates the professional way Dr. Sutcliffe's receptionist greets them, handing over the intake forms for Will to fill out with no unnecessary gawking.

"Mr. Graham," Dr. Sutcliffe says as one of the medical assistants shows him into the man's office, Sutcliffe coming out from behind his desk with his hand outstretched. "And Hannibal," he adds, looking past Will even as their hands clasp. Will's not offended. Sutcliffe keeps his smile with an effort, but his eyes go soft with concern. Will can't sense any gloating, no ghost of old rivalries in Sutcliffe's manner, not even when Hannibal's nostrils flare to take in his scent. Instead Sutcliffe flashes a fond grin and holds out his arm, wrist bared, for Hannibal to smell.

"Doctor," Will begins sharply, insulted on Hannibal's behalf, but Sutcliffe stops him with a laugh.

"I promise it's not as rude as it looks. Hannibal's nose was legendary back in the day. The things he could sniff out--everything from the common cold to stomach cancer." Indeed, Hannibal doesn't look upset; the set of his ears is intrigued, and he leans in to sniff curiously at the skin he's offered without hesitation. "Scent can play a large role in memory. When we say something smells like home, that's because those smells have become inextricably linked with a particular place and time. Without knowing how much Hannibal recalls, I hope that he'll at least associate my scent with his own schooling. It might reinforce the idea that I'm here to help."

"Sorry," Will acknowledges. "This has just been kind of weird. And before you ask, no, we're not together. Are you sure the curse was even interrupted? Couldn't this be the intended result?" Will asks hopefully. "It was actually meant for me, if that makes a difference...."

"Did you know the person who cast the curse?"

"Brewed it," Will corrects him, "and no."

"Ever had any contact with them? Noticed anything missing from your home?" Will shakes his head. "Then no, the intended recipient shouldn't make any difference at all. They might have had you in mind during the curse's creation, but it would've been weakly keyed to you at best. As for the curse's state of completion...why don't we step into the examining room and find out?"

Will follows him with good grace, encouraged that Sutcliffe is willing to delve into the facts first instead of coming to a snap judgment. When he looks back, expecting to see Hannibal slinking lazily at his heels, he finds the man prowling the doctor's office instead. "Hannibal?" he calls, hesitating at the threshold to the room next door while Sutcliffe looks on with interest.

Hannibal flicks an ear at him but doesn't join them until he's made a full circuit, and he approaches with his ears tipped back, eyes narrowed in dissatisfaction. Whatever he was looking for, he must not have found it.

Will looks to Sutcliffe with a helpless shrug; Sutcliffe chuckles ruefully. "I'm actually not surprised he's manifesting as a cat," the doctor admits.

The examining room reminds Will a little of an optometrist's office, except the collection of switchable lenses on a heavy swing-arm bolted to the floor is for the doctor, not his patients. There's a metal containment circle inlaid in the center of the floor--probably aluminum, the myth of silver's metaphysical purity having been disproven almost two centuries ago. It's ringed by short, slim columns ready to hold an assortment of focusing objects, but all stand empty for now. Hannibal's curse isn't active, or shouldn't be; it's not transferrable either, or Will's moment of insanity at the café would have resulted in both of them being changed.

"All right," Sutcliffe says, pulling the bulky seeker's mask over to himself and beginning to flip through scrying lenses. "Hannibal, if you'll step into the circle, we can begin."

Will is reasonably certain Hannibal understands everything that's said around him; he just chooses to ignore anything he doesn't want to hear. "Uh, Hannibal?" Will tries as Hannibal begins a desultory circuit of this room as well, already bored, judging by his expression. "The circle?"

"Maybe he'd follow you in?" Sutcliffe suggests, making no move to try and herd Hannibal physically. Will's glad he's not the only one feeling the tiniest bit wary of crossing a cat with six feet of bipedal leverage and opposable thumbs.

"Won't that throw off your scrying?"

Sutcliffe shrugs. "Only if you're attached to his curse. And that'd tell me something too."

"Not the true love thing again," Will groans, even as he's taking a long stride into the circle, careful to come nowhere near the inlay. "Look, I'm not in love--Hannibal?--with my doctor. I'm not even gay!" He holds an arm out all the same, and that seems to do the trick. Hannibal gives him a long, assessing look, then saunters into the circle after him.

Sutcliffe's chuckle is knowing, but it's the sort of knowing laugh Will uses when people say of _course_ they're ready for a new puppy; they've read a book and everything. "What makes you think that makes any difference?"

Will stares, forgetting to drop his hand. Hannibal sniffs his fingers then ducks to gently head-butt his knuckles, an eerily authentic purr rumbling from his throat.

Will snatches his hand back in a hurry, but Hannibal doesn't look offended. The glitter in his eyes reads more like amusement.

"What--what do you mean?" He's not...he's not suggesting _Hannibal_....

Ducking back behind the seeker's mask, Sutcliffe's hands move with confidence, spinning dials and flipping switches as scrying lenses flick smoothly in and out of place before his eyes. "You do realize it isn't specified."

"What isn't?"

"The type of love. Honestly, it could be anything: romantic, paternal, sibling, platonic...what matters is that it's _true_."

Will opens his mouth to argue, then realizes he can't. There are dozens of accounts where the bonds of sisterly affection or one clever--or righteously enraged--mother managed to nullify the most malevolent of spells.

He looks again at Hannibal, who hasn't come any closer, but he hasn't stopped purring, either. As much as Hannibal seems to enjoy surrounding himself with people, it's slowly becoming clear that Will may be the only one Hannibal actually _likes_. And Will--there are at least a handful of people whose company he appreciates, but warily, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Hannibal's the only one he _trusts_. So if one person's only true friend momentarily loses his mind in defense of _his_ only true friend....

"Exactly," Sutcliffe says, like Will had his revelation out loud. Seen through the lenses of a seeker's mask, maybe it's the same thing. "And why do you think that is?"

"Clarity of intent? Good for powering spells, even better at disrupting them?" Will guesses. He's only done the basic courses in the thaumaturgical suite, just enough for his degree; he's a little rusty on theory where it doesn't apply to forensics.

"That's what we like to tell people," Sutcliffe says with a touch of rue, "but the truth is, magic is alive and it can be convinced. You just have to want it badly enough. Also, congratulations," he adds before Will can decide whether that's the most insane or the single most terrifying thing he's ever heard. "You're apparently stubborn enough to stop one of the nastiest curses I've seen in a while in its tracks."

"What?"

"It's a Soul Mirror curse, all right," Sutcliffe explains, swapping in a last set of lenses, "but then they tacked a _Memento Mori_ on top of it. Odd combination; why bother transforming you if you were going to die right after? But the only other thing a _Memento Mori_ is good for is--"

"To make you mortal, if you weren't already," Will finishes for him, stomach filling with ice. "The kid who cast the curse was convinced I was a demon."

"Well, I can assure you conclusively that you're not," Sutcliffe says as he pushes the mask on its swing-arm aside. "That's...quite the diabolical punishment, though. Making you reveal your true form, then making you live with what comes next, powerless. Luckily the second part of the curse wasn't tripped, but...the bad news is, it wasn't negated, either. What you did made it go dormant, but...I'm sorry. I can't tell you for certain how long."

The apology in his voice is genuine, as is the worry in his eyes he's trying to hide. Putting on a brave face for Hannibal, Will doesn't doubt. He takes a deep breath and tries to do the same.

"So...what do we do? Can you break it? What's our next step?"

Sutcliffe nods slowly, chewing his lower lip. "I should be able to, yes, but it won't be as simple as a common dispelling. Since you know who the caster is, it'd help to know what components they used in the process. Any notes left behind, or extra vials of the potion--"

"Well, if he's smart, he'll take a plea bargain and lay it out for us, but I guess that'll depend on his lawyer," Will says with a grimace. The kid's defense team will likely try to play up his delusions, and delusional people don't make the best note-takers. If they get a recipe out of Bowen, it'll be a miracle. "Either way, we were able to get a search warrant, so the lab's bringing everything in for analysis. I'm not sure how much I'll be able to get out of lockup, since it'll be evidence, but I'll get you what I can." And what they won't give him, he'll take. Jack's good at turning a blind eye when it suits him; he can damn well do it again if it comes to that.

"That would definitely make my job easier," Sutcliffe says, smile easing into something more natural as relief sets in. "I'm good, but bootleg alchemy like this can be a nightmare to untangle."

"Tangled's a good word for this mess," Will says, leaning a little away as Hannibal slinks closer to sniff at his hair. It's hard to say whether his shampoo meets with Hannibal's approval or not; one ear flicks back at a questioning tilt, his curiosity undeterred by Will's reluctance to be at the center of it.

"Well," Sutcliffe says, trying manfully not to laugh, "at least he's in good hands."

***

Will pulls up in front of Hannibal's house and takes a deep breath, hands clenching and relaxing on the wheel. His Volvo's new enough that it doesn't look entirely out of place on this street, though the dog hair embedded in the thick blankets thrown across the back seat and hatchback puts paid to the notion that it's a soccer mom's vehicle. Zeller had offered to bring Hannibal's Bentley around, but it's fine for now in the FBI parking lot.

Hannibal, on the other hand, is stuck with Will for the time being, and even in this altered state, Will is only willing to push his luck so far.

Mustering a smile, Will turns to Hannibal and asks, "Ready to pick up some of your things?"

Hannibal gives him another lazy blink, which if Will's reading him correctly is a bit like a friendly tail-wag. Whatever it is, he seems to be its lone recipient, so he'll take it as friendly until proven otherwise. At least the curse was derailed before Hannibal could acquire claws.

He goes around to the passenger side to let Hannibal out, uncertain whether Hannibal has a clear concept of doors but willing to play along. He still has Hannibal's keys, thanks to the debacle of accommodating Hannibal's tail, which now ranks very close to the top of the most awkward moments of Will's life. When he fits the key in the lock, he hesitates, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Sorry," he says, which feels wholly inadequate to the situation. "I'd ask first if I could, but with that kind of forewarning, I'm pretty sure we'd both have packed a thermos."

Hannibal doesn't even crack a smile, and he _always_ smiles at Will's attempts at humor, no matter how terrible. Positive reinforcement. This version of Hannibal waits until Will turns back to the front door, shoulders hunching a little with embarrassment, and then he leans forward and...bonks Will in the back of the head. With the crown of his head. And then he just stays there as Will freezes, eyes wide.

Wait. He knows that one. That is definitely a sign of affection.

"Uh...permission to enter?" he asks, going out on a limb.

Quietly, almost thoughtfully, Hannibal begins to purr.

Will lets out a deep, slow breath that drags his hitched shoulders down from his ears. All right. So he isn't wrong about how much Hannibal understands, although how it's being translated in his head right now is anyone's guess. That...that makes things easier. And a lot more difficult if he dwells on the fact that Hannibal _knows_ there's something wrong with him that no one quite knows how to fix. Yet.

"Okay. So. We need to get you some clothes," Will starts laying out the plan as he unlocks the door, stepping back as he pushes it open to let Hannibal enter first. "Something you don't mind ruining, because you remember the thing with the tail...right?"

Hannibal flicks an ear, expression bored. Will frowns. It's obvious this version of Hannibal doesn't care one way or the other about his clothes, but what about when he goes back to normal? He must like his suits, or he wouldn't wear them, but...is it the suits themselves or the theater of wearing them that he likes?

Will stares, absently shutting the door behind him as Hannibal wanders off: head up, ears pricked, tail curled confidently upward. Gods. Even in his right mind, he'd probably be _enjoying_ this spectacle.

Huffing a quiet laugh, Will follows him, half expecting Hannibal to lead him straight to his bedroom on Will's implied request.

He's wrong. Hannibal leads him straight to the kitchen instead. Somehow he's not surprised.

"Hungry?" Will asks as Hannibal prowls his domain, staring hard at the refrigerator and several cupboard doors without attempting to open any of them. Will's getting that sinking feeling again, the one that hates seeing Hannibal so..._curtailed_, if not diminished. "I could make you something while we're here. If you like. It won't be haute cuisine, but it won't be Mickey D's, either."

Hannibal growls, pinning his ears back, and earns himself a snort.

"Hey, turning down Starbucks is what got us into this," Will reminds him with a lopsided smile. "But don't worry. I think I can stand to eat organic for a couple of--"

Hannibal's ears unpeel themselves from his skull, tipping forward attentively as Will falters halfway to the fridge.

"Actually...why _was_ Bowen there? I didn't even know I'd be there, so unless he's in the habit of carrying deadly curses wherever he goes...."

He meets Hannibal's eyes without thinking, anticipating some reply that might not be the _right_ answer, but will invariably set Will on the right course. The silence is jarring, but the mind staring back at him isn't. Where Hannibal's eyes are usually the unruffled mirror of a calm lake, the focused curiosity aimed at Will is nearly as soothing in its purity. There's no endgame, no desired result or hypothesis to confirm. Will is being interesting, and that's enough to hold Hannibal's entire attention.

"Someone had to have divined it," Will says, the problem-solving section of his brain still chewing over the facts while the rest of him pokes cautiously at this new revelation. "And if it wasn't Bowen, then there's an accomplice."

He's on autopilot after that, phoning Jack and pacing the kitchen as he passes on his suspicions, tracked all the while by a fascinated stare. It's so close to familiar, he finds himself rummaging the fridge out of habit as he hangs up, only to be drawn up short by what he finds. A pair of steaks are already marinating on the bottom shelf, but Hannibal hadn't mentioned any need to get back home in time for company to arrive. Had he planned on inviting Will to dinner?

It wouldn't be the first time, but Will usually declines. If he'd known his doctor was such an optimist....

Eyeing the dish he pulls from the fridge, he finds himself dissatisfied with the cautious way his thoughts skirt what he sees. The meat is boneless, tenderized, no cut he can quite put his finger on in its current state, but real care has already been put into its preparation. Readied beforehand to keep an impatient guest from fleeing, the deceptively simple dish will inspire a wary palate to linger at the table. This is Hannibal's--

No.

This is his friend's design.

Will sighs, guilt niggling at the back of his mind. It's not like Hannibal doesn't know how bad he is with social situations, but he doesn't like the thought of having disappointed him all the same.

"Well, at least one of us was thinking ahead," he says aloud, promising himself he'll try harder from now on.

He doesn't attempt anything adventurous, even though he sees Hannibal's recipe index sitting out. He's a decent cook, but he tends to stick to a respectable rotation of recipes he can make in his sleep. "Like a normal person," he tells Hannibal with a touch of amusement, pausing in his explanation of what exactly he thinks he's doing in Hannibal's kitchen. Hannibal offers neither censure nor advice, as riveted by his choice of lightly-roasted vegetables as his ability to solve crimes.

"Sorry," Will says anyway as he sets Hannibal's dinner before him, the meat on both their plates already cut into bite-sized pieces in the spirit of solidarity. "I know it's pretty plain by your standards, but if you're not comfortable with--"

Hannibal reaches out, pinches a cube of meat between finger and thumb, and pops it into his mouth without a trace of embarrassment, ignoring the silverware Will left him, just in case.

"Yeah. That. Exactly," Will says, smiling as Hannibal's eyes close in pleasure. At least he guessed right on the cooking time; rare was definitely the way to go.

After they're done eating, dishes washed and put away, Will has no more excuses to avoid pawing through Hannibal's personal effects. He makes it as quick as he can.

"I mean, a week...that's bound to be more time than we need, right?"

He's actually not surprised that even Hannibal's most casual clothes don't include a pair of jeans. Or at least his closet doesn't. The twin dressers might hold a few surprises, but Will retrieves socks and underwear and refuses to snoop any further, zipping up Hannibal's suitcase on the clothes and toiletries he's selected, relieved to have that task out of the way.

The only hiccup comes when he finds what looks like Hannibal's home office and spots the rolodex sitting out on the desk. "Well, that's a relief," he says as he steps inside, leaving the suitcase at the door. "Look, you're more than welcome to stay with me until this gets fixed, okay? I'm not trying to get rid of you," he promises, making a point of meeting Hannibal's eyes again as he starts across the room. "I'd just feel a lot better about it if I could get in touch with...someone. Your lawyer, maybe, if there isn't anyone else. Just in case there _is_ someone who'd have a better idea of what you--"

Before he can even touch the rolodex, Hannibal is suddenly right there, reaching out with startling speed to bat the thing away. It slides right to the edge of the desk without quite tipping over, but Will's as surprised as if Hannibal had picked it up and thrown it at the wall.

"Whoa, hey...what was that?" He tries and fails to glean any sort of explanation from Hannibal's face; all he can read is determination. The only thing he can think of is that Hannibal doesn't want him to make that call, either because the person Will talks to can't be trusted or because they'll care too much and take him away. The first possibility threatens to spark a rage, but the latter...that really shouldn't bother him, but he can't deny that it does. "I meant what I said; you're not going anywhere. I just want to do this right."

Hannibal gives him another slow blink, but the shift of his body plants him more firmly between Will and his goal. It takes a moment to realize that's because Hannibal is resting his hand on a leather-bound appointment book, one he has no objections to Will taking.

The name and number of Hannibal's lawyer is printed inside, in Hannibal's intimidating penmanship.

Will chuckles a little as he tucks the book under his arm, shaking his head. "Well, at least I didn't call the wrong guy. With my luck, those are all the people you've referred to psychiatrists you don't like."

Hannibal looks like he might headbutt him again--nicely--or twine around his ankles, which is something Will wants to avoid at all costs.

"All right," he says, starting for the door. "Let's get you home and...yeah. And hope for the best."

Hannibal may have forgotten that Will has dogs, but Will certainly hasn't. His only consolation is that if Hannibal loses his cool and bolts for the nearest tree, Will should at least be able to find him again after.


	3. Chapter 3

Night has fallen in earnest by the time they reach Will's house, the windows spilling a welcoming glow. Gravel crunches quietly as they coast up the final yards to the front door, but not quietly enough. Though he'd hoped his slow approach would give the dogs a chance to get some of the excitement out of their systems, he can hear barking from inside the house even with the engine still running.

He'd feel guiltier about leaving them alone for so long, except Alana had agreed to come by earlier and check on them. He's almost surprised she hadn't stuck around to check on Hannibal as well, only maybe she doesn't want to overwhelm him. Either of them. Or else she's heard about the kiss and is just biding her time before delivering a disappointed lecture on doctor-patient ethics.

He's just grateful she thought to leave the lights on.

Hannibal sits up straight in the passenger seat, ears swiveling to pinpoint the source of the racket even before he turns his head to look.

"Hey," Will says in the tone he reserves for wary strays and trips to the vet. One of Hannibal's ears angles his way, but his eyes remain fixed on the front door. "It's okay. It's a lot of dogs, I know, but they're friendly. You've met them before, actually--do you remember?" Hannibal doesn't answer--of course he doesn't--leaving Will to rub uncertainly at the back of his neck. Damn it. He knew he should've put his foot down about letting Hannibal bring the dogs treats. He's going to get mobbed, even before the dogs figure out where the intriguing new scent is coming from. "Right," he mutters, taking a deep breath. "Here goes nothing."

When he goes to let Hannibal out of the car, he keeps one hand on the door and one on the roof, blocking Hannibal in in case he decides to make a dash for it. Rising without hesitation, Hannibal sidesteps as much as Will's braced arms allow, peering past him with unabashed fascination. When he tries to duck under Will's arm--to go _to_ the source of the noise, and why is Will even surprised?--Will has no choice but to reach out to stop him.

"Hey," Will says again as he settles both hands on Hannibal's biceps. Hannibal stops at once, but his eyes never leave the door, tail whipping in sharp jerks. Is he angry? Impatient? His face says not, but Will has no idea. "If this is too much, I can let them out to--"

Slipping free of Will's hold with worrisome ease, Hannibal starts for the door without him, footsteps silent over the bones of autumn leaves. The stairs he takes two at a time, flowing up onto the porch with a grace that isn't out of character at all. Hannibal has always inhabited his body with an enviable ease, but for a man who spends his working hours behind a desk, he must keep himself surprisingly fit.

"You know what they say about curiosity, don't you?" Will calls after him, but Hannibal's back to pretending he doesn't understand a word, hovering in front of the door with an intent stare, as if he can force it open by will alone.

The eager barking redoubles when Will slides his key into the lock, and he cracks the door cautiously, already calling them to order. "Tss! Settle down, guys, we've got company."

Even in this state, Hannibal is too polite to simply shove past Will, but when Will slips inside, hoping to restrain the dogs' enthusiasm enough to keep them from plowing into Hannibal, Hannibal doesn't hesitate. Following close on Will's heels, he slinks in after him, immediately becoming the focus of seven bottomless pits who instantly recognize their favorite purveyor of sausages.

"Hey," Will warns sharply, "all of you, si--"

He doesn't even get the command out before Hannibal's in the middle of the pack, dropping to an easy crouch and purring thunderously. The dogs are ecstatic, tails going a mile a minute, paws being offered as six furry butts hit the floor. Only Buster barks in mystification, doing a strange little dance all around Hannibal, his confused little brain torn between licking Hannibal's hands and investigating this strangely-shaped cat in their midst. Hannibal doesn't even twitch, too busy headbutting Harley's shoulder and nudging his head up under the big dog's chin.

"You've got to be kidding me," Will mutters helplessly, almost relieved at the distraction when his cell phone rings. "Hello?"

"_Will, hi. Have I caught you at a good time_?"

Will's shoulders sag as he sighs. Alana. "I'd say to define 'good,' but...."

"_Is everything all right? How's Hannibal_?"

"He's, uh...fine? I mean, he's part feline, but...." Buster seems to have overcome his attack of cognitive dissonance and is now rolling around on the ground, showing his belly and licking Hannibal's dangling fingertips. Hannibal doesn't seem to mind. "Hey, so...were you aware that Hannibal's a dog person?"

Alana snorts. From her it sounds ladylike. "_Hannibal's not a dog person, Will. He's an animal person. Full stop. Why? What's he doing_?"

"Holding court, I think," Will mutters in disbelief. The dogs are still sitting politely even without the promise of treats to hold their attention, their tails doing an admirable job of sweeping the floor. Hannibal sits purring like a chainsaw, tail coiling neatly around his feet. Will keeps waiting for him to shift forward, set his knees down or fold himself into a tailor's seat, but he seems perfectly comfortable as he is. "You know, when he agreed to watch the dogs, I thought he was just...humoring me." Taking pity on him, actually. He'd been grateful, but the likelihood that he was playing on Hannibal's sympathies hadn't sat right.

"_Are you kidding? You probably made his week. That and he likes you_."

Will freezes. "What?" He sees Hannibal straighten out of the corner of his eye; when he glances that way, he finds Hannibal watching him with the same riveted attention as before. Turning his shoulder to that unblinking stare, he starts to pace.

"_Come on, Will_," Alana chides, which is really not the response he expects to hear. "_You may have noticed Hannibal doesn't do anything he doesn't want to do. Actually, I'm not surprised he's a cat, now that I think about it_."

"Join the crowd," Will mutters, wishing she'd get back to the point.

"_Well, as much as he likes your dogs, if he didn't think much of their owner, he'd have helped you find the best kennel money or favors could buy. It's how you know he considers you a friend: you get the personal treatment. And Hannibal gets free rein to spoil your dogs_," she adds, her smile clearly audible.

"Oh," Will says, feeling a bit like an idiot. "Sorry. Just...I thought you'd heard about--"

"_The kiss_?" Alana asks, amused. "_Is there something you want to share_?"

"No! But I've caught flak already from everyone but Hannibal's cursebreaker friend, and...I mean, I know what it looks like--"

"_Will. Why would I be surprised that a man who surrounds himself with dogs would be loyal enough to confuse his friend's curse_?"

One corner of Will's mouth twitches uncertainly up. He's gratified by the compliment, though it's misguided at best. There are plenty of people who shouldn't be put in charge of a stuffed animal, let alone a real one. If a dog's character traits were capable of being transferred to their owner, Will's house would be pretty empty.

"_Besides_," she adds blithely, "_you're his patient. Hannibal would never risk your wellbeing like that_."

"Right," Will says automatically, unsettled though he can't pinpoint why. He's pretty sure Alana was aiming for reassuring, but he feels...dismissed. When it comes to Will muddying a curse, it's the act of a friend, but when it comes to someone considering him in a romantic light?

No, he reminds himself firmly, not someone. Hannibal specifically, and it's not like she doesn't have a point. Not just that Hannibal has likely never done an inappropriate thing in his life. Whatever Hannibal's type turns out to be, Will is probably so far off his radar, he might as well be on Mars. Hannibal wouldn't even be the first psychotherapist to run politely in the opposite direction.

"Anyway, I should--" He glances again at Hannibal and huffs a laugh. He hasn't moved, but the dogs are all lying on their bellies in a circle around him, paws neatly outstretched before them. They look like ancient Egyptian worshippers at prayer, and no free guesses who fancies himself their god. "I should distract the boys before they make Hannibal their chief, apparently. And get in touch with his lawyer. Think I should wait until morning?"

"_For Hannibal, he'd probably make a house call_."

"Good point. Thanks for seeing to the dogs, if I didn't say."

"_Always happy to help a friend_," she replies warmly. Reassuring. Again.

He can't help wondering what would have happened if Alana had been with him instead. If he'd kissed her instead of Hannibal, would the results have been the same?

Sinking down to the edge of his bed as they say their goodbyes, Will disconnects the call and lets his phone drop to the mattress. Running his hands over his face, he presses his fingertips into the hollows of his eyes, pushing back against the headache that wants to build. He feels twice his age, and though he may regret it in the form of an early rising, he wants nothing more than to just roll over on his side, wrap the blankets around himself, and go to sleep.

When something touches the top of his head, he jerks his face up from his hands and finds Hannibal crouched before him, one hand still half-outstretched. Concern is writ stark across his face, and when Will remains frozen, he reaches out again and taps the tips of his fingers once, lightly, against Will's cheek.

That startles Will into a laugh, mostly breath, makes something behind his ribs pull tight with a fondness he's more used to burying. "I'm all right," he promises, briefly meeting Hannibal's eyes before letting his own skitter away. "Just tired. I should show you the spare bedroom, get us ready to turn in."

First things first, though. Retrieving Hannibal's appointment book, he dials Hannibal's lawyer and braces himself to explain the situation one more time.

Lawrence Hargreaves has the reedy voice of an old man and a mind sharp as a razor. He lets Will ramble just enough to get a feel for the situation, then fires off a battery of incisive questions that slash the problem down to basics. Is Hannibal in any danger that hasn't been addressed? Is Will--and by extension, the FBI--assuming responsibility for his wellbeing? And will there be any impediment to Mr. Hargreaves' access to his client? His tone warns that there is only one correct answer to his questions, but Will has no intention of trying to manage Hannibal's life for him without assistance.

"No, you're welcome to see him whenever you need," Will says, phone tucked between shoulder and ear as he shakes out a fresh set of sheets to go on the guest bed. Hannibal, standing upright on his feet again, watches from the door, one ear cocked back with a doubtful frown. "Within reason," Will corrects himself abruptly, remembering that rolodex Hannibal had steered him away from. "If you want him to sign anything, that's...going to have to wait a few days. Sorry."

"_Quite understandable, Mr. Graham_," Hargreaves replies, wry approval warming his tone. "_I believe we may be on the same page with regards to Dr. Lecter's best interests. As to his next of kin...that's a bit trickier. To the best of my knowledge, he has no living family, but I have been given instructions on who to contact to obtain power of attorney_."

"Obtain?" Will echoes, smoothing down the spare blankets.

Hargreaves huffs. In Will's imagination, he looks like a ruffled crow, fluffing his feathers out. "_He's assured me repeatedly that the paperwork has already been completed, but he's preferred not to keep it on file. An old friend of the family, was all he would say. As to why he prefers to leave them as a last resort...well, I can think of several reasons why that might be the case_."

"So can I," Will says grimly. "And now that I've contacted you, I guess you have to contact them?"

"_It may take some time_," Hargreaves warns, perfectly helpful and nearly saccharine in his sincerity. "_The only contact I have is a number in Lithuania. They may be difficult to reach_."

"That definitely sounds like a problem," Will agrees, trying not to laugh as he sets Hannibal's suitcase atop the freshly-made bed. "So I'll just check in again after Hannibal's next appointment with the cursebreaker?"

"_I'm sure I'll have heard something by then_."

Will flips through the appointment book after he hangs up, the back of his neck prickling with embarrassment. He recognizes a few too many of the names inside, but while their appointment times are all listed in Hannibal's beautiful script--"I hope you know the other doctors are going to kick you out of the club"--he doesn't find a single phone number. A trip to Hannibal's office to make some cancellation calls is apparently on their list. At least tomorrow is Sunday.

It's been nice, not having to deal with anyone but Hannibal on the nights of their sessions, but at this particular moment, he could really wish the man had gotten around to hiring a new secretary.

When he can't put it off any longer, he opens Hannibal's suitcase, pulls out a set of pajamas, and begs, "Please tell me you've decided you remember how to dress yourself."

Hannibal headbutts him in the shoulder.

Will sighs. "You owe me, Doctor. Don't think for a moment I won't collect in food."

The whole nightly ritual leaves them both a bit frazzled. Hannibal _growls_ at him over the toothpaste, though it's the stuff Will took from Hannibal's own bathroom, some pretentious-sounding brand he's never heard of. It doesn't smell particularly offensive to him--if anything, it smells milder than his own brand--but maybe putting up with the minty burn is just part of being human. To a cat who doesn't feel like playing by the rules, it must seem unnecessarily torturous.

With some half-thought notion of rewarding Hannibal's patience--and forbearance in not biting him--Will holds up Hannibal's brush with a questioning look. This is his first mistake. It's fifteen minutes before Hannibal lets him put the brush back down, and by then he's been chased back into the guest bedroom, cornered on the bed with his spine pressed back against the cheap wooden headboard, Hannibal poised on palms and toes at his side, the top of his head all but glued to Will's shoulder. One brief spike of panic--he knows what this looks like too--has long since given way to muffled laughter, at himself mostly. He has _seven dogs_. He really should have seen this coming.

"Hannibal," he coaxes at last, "come on. We need to get to sleep."

Hannibal sits back, blinking drowsily. When Will gets up, Hannibal tries to follow him; his ears fold uncertainly down when Will stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. It's just time to sleep. In here. This can be your room for the next few days. I know it's not what you're used to...."

Narrowed eyes dry up his nervous babbling as Hannibal studies him, seems to realize he's in earnest...and turns his back on Will in silent protest. Will bites his lip to trap a smile.

"All right," he says, knowing better than to give in to dramatic displays of disappointment. "I'll see you in the morning. Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

He briefly considers shutting the door behind him for Hannibal's own safety, only he doesn't want the room to become a cage. Even at the mercy of inconvenient instincts, Hannibal is still a man, and his friend.

It's a notion he's tried to distance himself from for months, Jack's heavy-handed influence overshadowing all their dealings, but as he retraces his steps down the hall, listening for the telltale creak of springs at his back, he discards the last of his wariness. Hannibal doesn't need this association with the FBI to make his career look more impressive or anyone's validation. He knows Hannibal humors Jack for a reason, but though he still can't read Hannibal well enough to discern his motive, he's no longer sure it has anything to do with him. Or maybe keeping the peace between them is just something Hannibal considers his duty as a friend.

He doesn't really expect an easy night, not after the day he's had, but not waking from night terrors would have been nice. His brain is entirely predictable--the curse running its full course, Hannibal engulfed in real flames instead of spellfire--but that doesn't make the dreams any less unsettling. He manages to keep quiet, not wanting to startle his guest, rolling onto his side and shivering into damp sheets as he foregoes his usual trip to the linen closet. He almost doesn't want to sleep after that, but he's exhausted, it's late, and there's a warm shape curling solid and comforting against his spine: an unspoken promise to keep watch. He shifts a fraction to lean against the dog's back--Harley? it's too big to be Winston--and yawns, his eyes drooping helplessly closed.

Despite every expectation, he sleeps like a baby the rest of the night, lulled by a near-constant rumble that hums through his bones.


End file.
